


convalescence

by chagny



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Picked a bad time to publish a story about a sick character, Post-Canon, Really sickfic, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23117878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chagny/pseuds/chagny
Summary: When the ghost sets them free, Raoul and Christine's troubles do not end. Raoul's health rapidly declines, with only Christine to care for him.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 14
Kudos: 42





	convalescence

**Author's Note:**

> This contains a fusion of events and characters from both the book and the musical. 
> 
> Warning for a non-graphic depiction of a character vomiting

The world and the past hour were a blur. The ghost who was a man set them free, but he barely had time to register elation or fear before Christine told him she must return.

“Just to say goodbye, Raoul. And return the ring. Then I’ll be back because I love you. I owe it to him.”

 _You don’t owe him anything_ , he wanted to say, but he didn’t have it in him to attempt to convince her otherwise. She had been willing to give up her freedom, her life, her happiness, all so he could live. The prospect of life knowing Christine was the wife of that monster— he did not understand why Christine didn’t hate that man— half made up his mind to stop fighting, surrender to the darkness and let himself hang. He would choose for her, for life without Christine was not worth living. 

He stumbled to follow her back into the lair, his poor abused throat rasping for breath, but she tumbled back into his arms before he could witness the final goodbye between Christine and the man who had been her teacher.

Tears streamed down her face. “Please, take me home.” 

She kissed him and her lips tasted like death. His cold, clammy hands found purchase in her hair. A living bride. Raoul’s bride.

In the murky light, Raoul could just make out the boat, which seemed to be moored to nothing in particular. He had been a sailor, yes, and he’d been to Venice but never had he rowed a gondola like this. He attempted as well as he could.

They did not speak much after rowing away, at least nothing they hadn’t said before. Raoul would press a kiss to her hand, a gesture comforting in its familiarity. They whispered that they loved each other, but did not discuss the events that had just transpired. There was a distant bellow of despair, but Christine either did not hear or pretended she didn't, eyes fixed firmly on her fiancé.

Between the swimming and the near hanging, his arms were exhausted but he continued to row. The physical pain and fatigue he felt distracted him from the thoughts at the back of his mind, ones he hoped he could leave behind at the house on the lake.

Raoul’s legs buckled just as they came in sight of the shore. He fell to his knees, like the weak man he was, and for a moment he thought the boat might capsize. With Christine’s help, he steadied himself, and they reached dry land.

“How… how do you get out of here?” he said, stumbling on the damp rocks. Christine’s hands steadied him.

“I’m not sure, I was about to ask you the same question…” she hesitated. “Every time I’ve been down here, I haven’t been paying as much attention as I should.”

Above them, they could hear a stirring mass of humanity, all calling for the Phantom’s blood. Raoul held Christine close.

“They're going to kill him,” she said in a small voice. “Oh, that poor, unhappy man.”

He might have bitterly laughed on another day, but he held his tongue. Yes, the mob very well might kill him, but they had to catch him first didn't they? 

Like a korrigan, a figure with a lamp emerged from the darkness. Madame Giry gave two rapid kisses to her former pupil, which made Christine flinch.

“Christine! Monsieur le Vicomte!” the normally stoic woman said with ragged breath. “Have you seen my Meg? I told her, I told her to stay! But she's gone, I found her costume in her dressing room, but no Meg.”

Christine seemed faint and leaned heavily on Raoul’s arm. “Meg?”

“Meg wanted to go with me, to save you,” Raoul murmured into her hair. “She showed me how to keep my hand at the level of my eyes. It would have been wonderful advice if I had only taken it.”

“But, oh my god, Meg, she could be in danger,” Christine worked herself up. “I need to know that she's safe.”

Madame Giry was near tears, which made Raoul feel rather awkward. Her dark skin had taken on an ashen tone.

“The opera ghost, he’ll know that I betrayed him… he’s always protected Meg, or at least he said he would, in exchange for my services. But now…”

“ _He_ won’t harm her, I know it,” said Christine, provoking a choked sort of laugh from Raoul. “He’s done with that. He’s been changed. He let us go willingly.”

“What could have possibly have happened to him? What exactly-“

“We promised not to tell,” Christine blurted out. “She's in more danger from the mob than him.”

Madame Giry raised one eyebrow.

“What occurred across the lake is between the three of us,” Raoul said firmly despite how infirm he felt. “If Christine believes he will not trouble the opera house any further, I believe her. She knows him just as well as you.”

_Better than you, Giry._

The mob was making an even bigger ruckus, and evidently, they’d found something that displeased them, based on the shouts he could hear.

“You must go, my dear,” Madame Giry opened a hidden door with a key hanging around her neck. “You must know that half of Paris believes you are an accomplice, dear Christine.”

“But Meg-”

“I will find Meg, I promise. Follow the staircase, and leave, quickly. Whatever will happen to the poor opera ghost, you do not wish to witness it.”

Christine nodded through her tears.

“Thank you,” Raoul said plainly. “For everything.”

He led Christine up the staircase, too focused on seeing what was ahead to look back.

The carriage, fine horses and all, awaited. They collapsed into the cushioned seats, Christine taking refuge in his arms. Raoul became distinctly aware that his nose might be broken, somehow he had been too consumed with other thoughts to notice before.

Raoul purchased the flat in the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires for Christine to live in alone, but after she confessed she could not sleep without him near, he practically moved in. He shared her bed nearly every night, purely in the most innocent sense of the word, as if they were children again. He would never defile Christine in that way, they’d say their wedding vows in August.

Christine's maid sat fast asleep on the armchair by the fireplace, evidently having dozed off waiting for her mistress. Lucia was a fellow Swedish immigrant, something that endeared her to Christine, who still felt odd having a servant to look after her. The two of them would chat merrily in their native language, which only sometimes made Raoul feel excluded. But the accidental slam of the door startled Lucia awake, she looked at them in horror. 

Raoul only then realized what an odd sight the pair of them must be. Christine, with her caked-on stage makeup running down her face, clad in a wedding gown which had become rather filthy, between Raoul's blood and the general dirt and grime of the labyrinth underground. Raoul had not thoroughly examined his injuries, but he imagined he was in even less of a presentable state. 

He could tell there were a thousand questions on the maid’s mind, but she held her tongue and started cooing over Christine, offering a bath and a clean nightgown. 

Christine readily agreed, muttering something about wanting the most scalding hot one as possible. Lucia left to draw the bath, casting hesitant glances at her mistress as she walked away. 

Raoul himself felt like nothing else but slipping into a hot bath and soothing his sore muscles, but he knew that Christine required it more than him. 

“I’m going to go wash up in the other bathroom,” he said, starting towards the door. “I’ll be back-“

“No!” She cried, yanking his arm harder than she probably intended. “You can’t leave me alone, please, Raoul!”

His wrist was already sore and he let out a yelp. She flinched, drawing back her hand.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that… I don’t want to be apart from you. Even when I’m in the bath, you must stay with me.”

Raoul bit his lip at the implication. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t caught more than fleeting glimpses of her dancer’s legs or her bosom in nightgowns that were too low cut to be completely proper. But they did not dress or undress in front of each other.

“I’ll sit in the corner, behind the screen, for your modesty’s sake, and read my book…” he said slowly. “I don’t intend to spend much time apart from you tonight or in the next few days.”

She nodded tearfully. When it came time for Christine to slip into the bath, he did as he promised, although his mind swam too much to process any of the words on the page. When she decided to climb out of the bath, he averted his eyes and considered asking Lucia to draw him another one, but he decided against it when he heard the maid yawn. He’d just have to splash some water on his face.

Christine’s nightgown only revealed limited skin, but it was bright red and raw. _Was the bath too hot?_ When Raoul gave her a concerned look, she sighed.

“I wanted to scrub everything off me. Scrub him off of me. I feel so unclean...” 

He wanted to take her into his arms again, kiss her, make her forget what had happened. But he was afraid of frightening her. And neither of them would ever forget what had happened. Not as long as they both lived.

He led her to the bed, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Raoul was ready to fall into the oblivion of exhausted sleep when Christine started fumbling with his nightshirt. She climbed on top of him, kissing him so fiercely that their teeth clashed together. 

“Christine... what are you doing?” he trembled.

“I want you,” she murmured against his mouth, hands skittering through his hair. “I want to prove I’m yours, not his, never his.” 

“I know you’re not-“

She used enough force to rip open the shirt. He gasped as her cold hands traced the outline of his collar bone. She laid rough kisses on his sore, chafed neck. He was sure to have bruises there by morning even without Christine’s efforts.

“Christine, we’re not-“

She silenced him with another kiss. “We’re not married, I know, I know. I want to prove to you that I love you. I only- I only kissed him because- because” she dissolved into tears.

“Christine, I know you love me. I know it. I- I don’t want our first time to be clouded by that. I want to be in sound mind, free from… what happened. Right now, I want to sleep with you beside me.”

She fell apart, a fragile limp doll in his arms. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Christine, I will never be grateful enough for what you’ve done for me... what you were willing to sacrifice. “

An odd look crossed her face, one that could almost be mistaken for manic glee. She was breathless and strangely excited as she recounted to him.

“I was going to kill myself, once I knew you were safe. I was going to stab myself, I knew he kept a long pair of sharp scissors. Or bang my head against the wall, over and over until I was dead or so senseless that I couldn’t feel what I knew he might do to me. Or perhaps I would have rushed into the lake, so still compared to the sea, but my dress, my wedding gown, oh, it was so heavy that it was sure to weigh me down so much that I couldn’t help but drown. And maybe, just maybe, he’d follow me, try to drag me out, but I would be like the siren he warned about, clawing at him, dragging him under, deeper and deeper, until we both were dead.”

Raoul's eyes were open in abject horror. He wanted nothing more to hold Christine as tight and close as possible, but he was afraid of making one false move and causing Christine to collapse into dust, considering how frail she was. All he could do is allow her to nestle herself beside him. Her breathing became less shallow and more rhythmic, and he was able to lull himself to sleep.

* * *

But Raoul was only able to sleep in small increments, a couple of hours here, a half an hour there. Every time he awoke, shaking from vague nightmares, Christine was curled on her side, wide awake, arms wrapped around her knees. He should have been able to stay up to guard her, keep her safe, but he was so bone-tired that he kept passing out. _What was wrong with him?_

When Lucia arrived with the breakfast and two police officers, neither Raoul nor Christine were in a state to answer questions. But still, they faced the men, who wanted the sordid details of what exactly happened in the house by the lake. He should have dressed properly to speak to the police, but he assumed the mob trampled his best coat beneath their feet last night. So instead, he greeted them in his nightclothes and robe.

“Miss Daaé,” said the stouter one. “Where do you think he might have gone?”

“I don’t know!” she said, clenching her fists. “I’ve told you everything I know, as much as I can tell you. Please, please, just leave us alone.”

“This is a very serious matter,” said the other one. “He’s killed not only the stagehand but Signor Piangi. Don’t you feel-”

“Piangi, he’s dead?” her voice wobbled. “Oh my god, Raoul, you didn’t tell me-”

Raoul put a hand on her shoulder. His voice was hoarse from screaming last night, so he spoke softly... “I didn’t want to upset you… it’s just that-”

Dabbing tears from her eyes, she said: “I didn’t know…”

“So you see now how it’s important that we find him, Miss Daaé,” said the first officer.

She looked up. “And what would you do with him? If you found him.”

“He’d have to face the consequences of his actions. There’d be a trial, of course, you’d testify.”

With a tremor in her voice, she whispered.“I don’t know where he is. I only saw him leave the opera once as I told you. I don’t want him to die, and if he went on trial, I wouldn’t testify, because I never want to see him again. He was in such a dreadful state, so weak, he could be dead already.”

“I think it’s best you two leave,” Raoul rose from his seat. Christine clutched his hand, compelling him to sit back down. “How dare you come in here and upset my fiancée? She’s been through enough already and she doesn’t need two idiots harassing her for information she does not have. If we think of anything else that might be pertinent to your investigation, we’ll be sure to contact you.”

The first one started to say something rude, but his partner stopped him.

“Many apologies, Monsieur le Vicomte. And to you, Miss Daaé, as well. You have our card, we won’t trouble you further unless you can remember anything else that might be of use.”

Raoul did not deign to give a response. As the men left, he broke into a fit of coughing that made the policemen turn around. His attempt at a glare seemed to make them leave quicker.

“I think we should go back to bed,” Christine said when they were finally alone. “You’ve got a nasty cough and you need rest.”

“You think I need to rest? Did you get any sleep at all?” he took her hand delicately. 

“I think I might be able to sleep now. But we should eat the breakfast Lucia made before it gets cold.”

Raoul’s stomach disagreed with him too much to do anything but pick at the tray. He sipped at the lukewarm tea until he excused himself to look in the mirrors

In the light of dawn, he could properly appraise his injuries. His throat was the most obvious, violent purple bruises had bloomed where the lasso had crushed his windpipe. The skin was broken at his Adam's apple, and he rubbed it tenderly.

Along with his black eye, there was a gash over his eyebrow where that man had struck him It probably should have been stitched up last night, although he didn't think it would scar. Another deep cut crossed his arm, although he couldn't recall the origin. And of course, his nose was bruised, but probably not broken.

They retired back into bed, planning to spend the rest of the day there. Christine seemed relatively stable, considering all she had gone through. She was more concerned with Raoul’s health than anything.

Yes, since they had returned from the land of the dead, so to speak, coughing fits occasionally racked his body, but it was nothing. He'd probably swallowed some of that fetid water and the noose made matters worse. It wasn't as if he was deathly ill.

It was slightly concerning when the coughing got so bad that it turned into retching. By two in the afternoon, it had progressed to that point twice, the pressure on his face so hard that blood vessels burst and left red spots, reminiscent of freckles, all over his cheeks. 

Christine fretted over him like he was a baby. He couldn't say he minded too much, but he wished he wasn't causing her such distress. Not when she had endured so much.

They did not discuss the events of the previous might. Raoul desperately wanted to apologize, for being such a reckless idiot and putting her in harm’s way, but Christine would not hear a word of it. She said she wanted to banish the topic from their conversation.

Christine didn't leave his side until the evening when she went to change into a fresh nightgown. He felt tears prick his eyes as his latest coughing fit commenced. _Why am I so weak?_ he thought as he hacked up shockingly green phlegm.

In his misery, he realized he had knocked over Christine’s cup of tea. _Idiot_. He rose from the bed to ask Lucia to make another one but evidently stood up too quickly. His knees gave out and he collapsed onto the floor.

Hmm… there were worse surfaces to lay face down on. Christine chose the green plush carpet. He thought he might just fall asleep where he was when he heard a horrible shriek that Christine had only made once before.

“Raoul, darling, are you all right?”

He felt her arms trying to lift him. _Where did he remember this sensation before?_

“I'm sorry I spilled your cup,” he moaned into the rug. 

“Raoul,” she groaned, frustration evident in her voice. “You really must sit up, at least…”

With all the effort in the world, he pushed himself up so he leaned against the bed.

“Sorry, Christine,” he gulped. “I think I might be sick again…”

Christine put the chamber pot on his lap near-instantly, like the expert caretaker she was. All Raoul could do was vomit. 

He truly was pathetic, he thought as he emptied the meager contents of his stomach for the third time that day. Poor Christine, forced to be his nursemaid. No, not forced, but she must feel some obligation. After surviving the events of the past few days, she had to take care of him while he was infirm. 

She gave him gentle pats on the back. “That's it, get it all up. You're doing so well.”

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” he practically whined. He hung his head in shame.

“Each night, each morning,” she produced a handkerchief and dabbed at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll have to get your strength back up, Raoul. We can try some broth again in a few hours.”

“I feel like I might die before then.”

“Hush,” she said, eyes flitting from side to side uneasily. “Would you like some fresh pajamas?”

“What difference does it make?”

“You’ve practically soaked them through with your perspiration.”

“I'm sorry about that.”

She blew a stray piece of hair out of her face. “That's not something you need to apologize for. I can help you get changed.”

“I can do it on my own,” he huffed, which was a mistake, for it prompted him to wheeze again.

“You just fell on the floor. I think I can take it from here.”

“It's too cold in here,” Raoul groused. “That's my problem. Do you have the window open or something?”

Her brow furrowed. “Raoul, it’s barely March and almost as hot as a greenhouse in here. Maybe I should take your temperature.”

She felt his forehead and recoiled in horror.

“What? What did I do? Did I do something wrong?” Raoul frantically tried to stand up.

“You're burning up. I need to call a doctor.”

“There's no need, I'm perfectly all right…”

“But I'm going to do it anyway.”

Within an hour, Doctor Husson arrived, a serious old man who catered exclusively to the upper echelons of Parisian society. He examined Raoul with cold, ungloved fingers and quickly determined it was nothing more than fatigue and a mild cold. This relieved Raoul but did little to reassure Christine

“Doctor,” said Christine. “My father, he died of pneumonia, and I just think-”

“There’s no need to worry about anything like that, young lady. The poor Vicomte just had a rough time of it, but with a few days of rest, he’ll be right as rain. I’d be more concerned about his pretty face than anything. Here, I’ll leave some laudanum to help him sleep better, I suppose you can be trusted to give him the right dosage.”

Christine bristled at this. “Of course I can, it’s only that-”

“No sense worrying your pretty little head,” Husson finished packing up his supplies. “I promise I know more than you.”

Raoul felt nauseated for multiple reasons and might have throttled anyone who spoke that way to his fiancée on any other day. But it felt like there was an invisible weight pressing down on his chest and all he could do was hoarsely chastise the doctor.

“How dare you speak to any lady that way, never mind my fiancée. We shan’t be using your services again, monsieur, nor anyone else in my circle, even if you do learn how to treat a lady with respect.” It took all of his strength to yell at the man, and he was afraid he sounded feeble more than anything.

The doctor was going to retort but seemed to think better of it, and hurried out of the room.

“Thank you for defending my honor, brave knight,” Christine perched herself beside him on the bed. 

“How could I not, when you have saved me so many times, even in the last few days.” He nuzzled her wrist, giving it a gentle kiss.

“Let’s not talk about that, only topics that will make you feel better. Negative thoughts and memories will not help you recover.”

“It seems all that's floating around my head are negative memories. I just wish we could forget…” he felt like drifting off.

“Why don't you try to shut your eyes, sleepyhead,” she rubbed his forearm. 

“Could I try some laudanum?” he murmured. “Just to keep me asleep. It’s not so much falling asleep that’s the problem, but staying asleep.”

“Of course, just be careful. I’ll mix it for you… just try to rest while I do it.”

* * *

He did doze off, although his restless mind was tormented by hazy dreams until a conversation in the hall roused him. It was a man’s voice talking to Christine. 

“If I could only speak to the Vicomte-”

“He's resting. He needs his sleep. I suggest you go.”

“I'm awake,” he bleated wearily. “I'll talk to anyone.”

A lean police officer that he had never met before strode in, Christine trailing behind him.

“Monsieur le Vicomte, I hate to trouble you when you're already ill, but I wanted to speak to you about your brother.”

“Don't trouble him with that, can't you see he’s not up to discussing it?” Christine hissed.

Raoul waved his hand, feeling woozy. “What is it?”

“The Comte, he’s not been home in two days.”

“Lost in the vortex of pleasure, eh?” Raoul slurred. “Perhaps you should consult with La Sorelli.” He laughed hard enough to produce a horrible spasm of coughs.

Christine, for whatever reason, did not find it very amusing at all. On the contrary, she seemed rather disturbed _. But for what reason_?

She addressed the police officer. “I’d prefer if we could continue this conversation outside of this room. You're not going to get any answers from him, just as I told you.”

Raoul would have protested, but he was too consumed with finding the chamber pot, for he felt sick to his stomach all of a sudden for no discernible reason. He could catch snatches of conversation, something about the Comte’s shoes on the banks of the lake and dredging. Odd. But he thought nothing of it.

Christine came back, pale and tight-lipped. She plastered on a smile. “How are you feeling, Raoul?”

“The very picture of health,” he chuckled. “I think I might go for another swim.”

“Shush,” she gave him a peck on his forehead. “You still feel warm.”

“I hardly think that’s a scientific method, Doctor Daaé” 

“Perhaps I should get another doctor,” she mused. “I don’t think it’s just pain from your injuries and a bad cough. I think we need another opinion. The laudanum is just making you act silly.”

“Better silly than crying, don't you say?”

She looked at him with sad eyes. “You can cry if you want to.”

“I’m just surprised Philippe hasn’t paid a call,” he said. “I know my sisters would be here in an instant if they didn’t have young children, but what’s his excuse?”

Christine’s whole body stiffened. “I’m sure he will find his way here soon enough.”

“You know my sisters and aunt raised me, but Philippe… he is the closest thing to a father I ever had. Philippe… he used to come from Paris every two weeks, just to see me. And when I was ill… he'd sit by my bedside, he didn't care if he'd get sick as well. He'd bring me my favorite lemon candy from Paris, and read stories to me. I suppose he’ll come soon…”

Christine silently nodded, thoughts elsewhere.

He let out a yawn. “I think I’ll take some more laudanum… I am so drained, I feel like I could sleep, but I know I need something more.”

“Are you sure? I hear it’s a powerful drug.”

“Just a little bit, I think.”

It was a mistake to take more laudanum, he learned as soon as he drained the cup. As his fever rose, he only felt more delirious.

He burrowed under the covers, but after a few minutes he would overheat and fling them off. Then the chills would wrack his body again and he would dive back under.

Everything was hazy and nothing made sense. He was trapped underground and dying, watching filthy skeletal hands rip at Christine’s bodice. Then he was digging with his bare hands through overgrown rose brambles, trying to uncover a double grave. 

He flitted in and out of consciousness, although he couldn't truly tell what was real and what were his fever dreams. 

“Christine,” he begged. “I need her. Oh god, I’ve got to apologize.”

“I’m right here, Raoul,” a blurry, angelic figure hovered over him. Pale white fingers dabbed a cool washcloth on his forehead.

“She’s gone, I can't find her. She’s in the fifth cellar, won't somebody-”

“Raoul,” the voice trembled. “I'm Christine, I'm here with you. We’re safe.”

“She does not hate him! She pities him… she more than pities him. oh… I do not want to lose her. I cannot lose her. I don’t want her to want to be lost.”

Then he entered the black nothingness again, but only for a brief reprieve. Christine, clad in the monster’s wedding dress, saturated with blood. But it wasn’t blood, gushing from her mouth, pouring out of her hands, running in rivulets down her arms and into her lap, wasn’t it? She was just frantically devouring a pomegranate, ripping into the flesh as if she were famished.

He felt the sensation of being underwater, everything distorted and his ears ringing. He heard a discussion, and while he understood individual words, he couldn’t make sense of the context. _Why would Philippe be planning a funeral_?

His visions subsided after an interminable amount of time and he awoke to an unfamiliar man peering over him. Raoul was ready to strike this stranger with all the strength he could muster before the bearded man spoke.

“I'm Doctor Mercier, I've come to look after you.”

“Where… where…” he stammered. “Where is she?”

The man took a step to the side, revealing Christine curled up in the armchair, fast asleep. The soft rising and falling of her chest provoked both sentiment and envy in him. All his life, he had taken it for granted how easy it was to breathe in and out. Now his chest rattled with every gasping breath.

“Your Miss Daaé is quite the exemplary caretaker. I saw her as Elissa, if singing wasn’t her destiny, I think that she would have her calling as a nurse. She has remained by your side the entire time. I hardly saw her close her eyes to even blink. It’s no wonder she’s fallen asleep, she’s been keeping watch over you for three days now. You are very lucky to have her.” 

“If only she was lucky to have me. A poor, sickly wretch,” he mused.

“Your life is not over, Monsieur le Vicomte. There is a chance you will recover.”

“A chance?” 

“There are no guarantees, in this life or the next. Your fever subsided, at least for now, but sometimes in cases like yours, it can come back with a vengeance.”

Christine shifted in the chair, stretching her hands above her head. When she opened her eyes, she smiled. “You’ve returned to the land of the living.”

“For now, at least, right, Doctor Mercier?”

“What... what do you mean by that?” she sat upright, smoothing the decorative apron of her dress

The older man stayed cautious as he spoke: “I only said that there is a possibility his condition could get better and then get worse.”

“Irreversibly worse,” Raoul added, bitterly cheerful. 

Christine turned as white as a sheet. “That can't be. He's always been a healthy young man.”

“The comorbidity of his conditions, between the fever and cough and his physical injuries, is hard for any person to take, even a perfectly robust one. If the fever goes down, I think he’ll be out of the woods, but I don't know just how likely that is. I don’t suggest giving up hope, but I do suggest at least getting your affairs in order, Monsieur le Vicomte, even just as a precaution.”

Christine rubbed her temples, whispering something to herself that he couldn’t make out.

“Doctor, would you excuse us for a moment?” he said.

Doctor Mercier gave a nod and ducked out of the room. Raoul clasped Christine’s hands in his own.

"Christine," he said, as calm as he had ever been. "I love you. If I die-"

"Don't say that!" she snapped, tears in her eyes.

"If I do... I want you to be taken care of. I want you to marry me, right now."

"Raoul, everything's going to be fine, you'll recover soon enough and we'll get married in August..."

"But if I don't, if I die, I want you to inherit everything I own. All of it. The house, the flat, my share of the estate, everything that a Vicomte's wife is entitled to. My brother and sisters, I know would give you something, you wouldn’t be turned out on the street, but I want it all to be yours, the jewelry, the carriage, everything 

She looked down in her lap, fiddling with her engagement ring, the replacement he had bought her after New Year’s Eve. “I know you're not going to die."

He reached over and grasped her hand. "You could live here with your second husband. I would want you to marry again. Just not to _him_ , please..." he coughed.

"Shut up! Shut up!" her eyes were alight with fury. "You're not going to die, and if you did, I would not marry anyone else, especially _him_!"

She crossed her arms and turned away from him, although he could tell from the violent heaving of her shoulders that she was sobbing.

“Christine, please listen. I'm sorry to upset you, I just want you to be taken care of. I'm sorry that I won't be able to protect you. If I die, that is.”

She turned to him, angrily wiping away tears with the back of her sleeve. “You're hallucinating. You're not in your right mind, like earlier."

“I've never been more lucid in my entire life.”

“We’ll have children and live by the sea,” she started, rubbing soft circles on his back. 

“It’s my wish. It could be my dying wish. You needn’t do it if you don’t want to, but I could summon the priest for this afternoon.”

“You think this is a game?” she cried. “If you make up your mind that you're going to die, you will. If you give up on your hopes of living, what's the point? I won't do it.”

“On the contrary, knowing that you’ll always be safe would give me the urge to keep fighting. You have a little time to think about it.”

“I don’t want to think about it,” she touched his face. “I don’t want to…”

He put his hand over hers. “Please do.”

She wiped away his tears with the pad of her thumb while letting her own tears run freely down her face.

He melted into her touch. “Is there something I can read? The paper perhaps?”

She went as stiff as a board and as pale as a corpse. “I don’t think we should read the paper.”

“Why not? I’d love to see the review of Don Juan Triumphant.”

Christine’s brow furrowed at his half-hearted joke.“That’s not funny and you know it.”

“I still want the paper,” he insisted.

“I can't give it to you, darling.”

“And why is that?” he grew irritated. “I want to see what's going on in the world.”

“It might upset you and we can't have that.” She looked at her feet.

“You're upsetting me right now. By not showing the paper to me.”

“You're working yourself up over nothing.”

“What are you trying to hide from me?” 

“Never mind that, Raoul!” She covered her face with her hands. “There are many more important things to worry about.”

“Yes, I agree. But you don’t wish to discuss them.”

She hissed in frustration. “You’re impossible, absolutely impossible.”

“If you don’t want to marry me if you’ve changed your mind, I will respect your decision. I’d just appreciate you telling me outright.”

Christine took a deep breath, “You think I don’t want to marry you? Is that it? You think I’d rather be living in a damp cellar, a prisoner of _that man_? When will it even be enough to convince you that I love you and only you, irrevocably? Raoul, if you wanted to get married after the premiere of Il Muto, I would have said yes. Or after that first kiss in Perros. I can’t bear to think of losing you, and losing you the same way as my father. I don’t want to be alone in the world, not again. I’ve been alone these past few days, not knowing if you would wake up or not.”

She became incredibly worked up, crying as he had never before seen her cry. She fell to her knees, burying her face in his chest.

He hesitantly ran his fingers through her curls. “ _I'm_ sorry… god, Christine.”

“I’ll marry you this afternoon if that’s what you want... if it will give you the strength to recover.” She looked up at him through teary eyes. 

“Only if that’s what _you_ really want,” he rasped.

“I know you’re not in the business of forcing people to marry you.” She finally gave him a small, cautious smile.

* * *

Perhaps it should be his last rites, not a wedding. A distinctly somber mood permeated the whole proceeding, but Raoul didn't let that dampen his spirit. The only guests in attendance were Lucia and Girys, Meg serving as the maid of honor and Madame Giry as the witness. 

Lucia propped him up with all the pillows in the house, practically. He nervously twisted his hands until Madame Giry put a hand on his shoulder to quell his anxiety. Meg walked in, carrying a bouquet of daisies and giving him a cheeky grin. His breathing grew heavier, a rattling in his chest that would not subside. And then his bride tip-toed in. 

Christine looked resplendent, not in white, of course, but in pale lavender. Her hair tumbled loose down her back, the way he liked it. A crown of daisies and forget-me-nots perched on her head, a delicate wisp of a lace veil trailing behind her. She beamed through her tears, so delicately holding his hand as if it might break. Raoul was so taken by her beauty that he hardly heard a word of what the priest said. He could do nothing but gaze into her eyes, Christine looked so bewitching. He was so consumed with how lovely she looked that he had to be prodded to say his portions of the vows. And his coughing fits only disrupted the ceremony three times. 

The kiss to seal their marriage was the sweetest one he’d ever had. He wept, which only spurred Christine into heavy sobs.

The wedding luncheon was served, broth for the groom and a heartier bisque for the bride and her guests. The Girys finally made their excuses and left, Meg’s wink prompting Christine’s pale cheeks to flush to a violent shade of red.

They were alone, truly alone. No one would disturb them. He trembled at the prospect of what might happen, although he didn't dare voice what he thought. He was too ill for it, he knew. 

Christine spoke first. “If this is one of the only nights we have together,” she said, holding back tears. “We might as well… consummate our marriage.” 

He thought she might hide her head in her hands again, but she looked at him with an unflinching gaze.

“I don't want to infect you.”

“You know that the doctor said you weren't contagious. If I was going to get sick, I would have by now. I-I only meant that, well, if we could conceive a son tonight, my claim would be strengthened on the fortune you so desperately want me to have… and- and-”

“Yes?” 

“I'd- I'd have something, someone to remember you by. A reason to live. A baby with your eyes.”

He felt a lump in his throat. He could picture Christine, whey-faced and dressed in mourning black, the very essence of widowhood, cradling a chubby infant in her arms. “I suppose that would be a quite practical course of action then.”

“It's not only that,” she blew out her frustrated breath. “I intend to never marry again if you die, which you won’t and I'd like to- well, you know I'm a virgin. I want that memory of you and me together. We’ve shared a bed, but never like that. I desire you immensely, even like this. Unless you’re not feeling up to it,” she bit her lip. “In which case-”

“If that's what you want, if you're being honest with me…” he gulped. She gave a terse nod. “You must know that I- that I desire you too. I suppose it's not too late to make a man of myself. We just have to go slowly, for the sake of my lungs.”

She let out a shaky giggle. “I suppose I should undress, in that case.”

He watched with heavy-lidded eyes and tender affection as she carefully disrobed, laying out her dress on the chair. After she stripped herself down so that only her chemise remained, Christine climbed on top of him and removed his nightshirt, leaving him exposed before her. 

“Take off my last layer, Raoul, if you can manage it.”

In his enthusiasm, he tore the chemise slightly. He had seen many of the wonders of the world but never had he seen something quite as lovely as his blushing bride’s curves, the Venus de Milo in the flesh. 

And then she nestled under the covers with him, kissing him languidly, both of them melting into each other's touch. Only Christine, only Raoul. If he died today, which he very well might, he'd die a happy man.

* * *

In the morning, Raoul awoke not to the doctor’s prodding, but the amorous advances of his wife. He felt delicate, tender kisses down his spine, a curious hand splayed out on his stomach and wandering lower. He was happy to oblige. For the first time in several days, he felt like he could almost tolerate the discomfort of being ill. Perhaps he had grown used to it by now.

Afterward, Christine lay in bed beside him, a rosy glow on her cheeks. Following a few minutes of panting softly and lazy kisses, she rose from his arms, prompting a groan from her husband of only a day.

Perhaps it was the sight of Christine’s bare form fumbling on the bedside table for the thermometer that had him feeling as if he could breathe better. She stuck the thermometer in his mouth and took her place back in his arms. When it came time to check the temperature, she gasped and dropped the glass rod in shock.

“Raoul, I think your fever’s broken, or at least your temperature’s gone down!”

She threw on her robe and roused the doctor. Mercier poked at him for a bit, before he pronounced that it was extremely likely Raoul would not only recover but recover soon enough that within a few days he could be moved to the seaside to convalesce. The newly minted viscountess wept with joy, while Raoul sat up in dazed silence, running his thumb over Christine’s knuckles.

It wasn’t as if the assurance of Christine’s undying love had magically cured him. Not at all. He stayed unwell for days afterward. But somehow, the excruciating weight of his worries was lifted by her very simple promise. 

And to Brittany they went, three days later, by train, Raoul cosseted in blankets like the invalid he was. Only after his thousandth time asking for Philippe did Raoul learn of the tragedy that had befallen his brother. Christine had tearfully told him that he had only kept the information from him to help him recover faster. He couldn't fault her for it. 

Gradually, they were able to discuss the opera house and its most infamous inhabitant. It took a long while before Raoul could escape the pervading sense of guilt that he had been too ailing to comfort Christine when she needed it most. She wouldn't let him apologize, though.

His wife (he still became giddy every time he'd used that word) took it upon herself to take care of him, refusing any sort of hired help that could take her place. He did not ask for her sacrifice, but she gave it anyway.

On an unusually warm day, heralding that spring would soon arrive, they sat on the sand, a picnic laid out before them. Indeed, he felt distinctly better these days. But there was still a question on his mind. 

“Christine,” he said, reaching out for her hand. “Do you wish to return to the stage? You know, I'm feeling more healthy these days. I would hate to prevent you from living your dream.”

“You are my dream, silly,” she popped a piece of chocolate in her mouth. “And as to your question, I don't know. Not any time soon, for a few different reasons.”

“Of course,” he nodded.

“It’ll have to be at least a year, if not more. I'd want to perform in a different city. My costumes won't fit anymore, anyways,” she looked down and patted her belly.

He froze. “You don't mean…?”

She grinned. “I do.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! And to my handful of dedicated "I Shall Never Marry" readers, I promise the next chapter will be out soon.
> 
> The majority of this was written well in advance of publishing, so it is not a response in any way to current events. Please do not use Phantom of the Opera fanfiction for medical advice.


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